


Event Horizon

by trailsofpaper (Sanwall)



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:19:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanwall/pseuds/trailsofpaper
Summary: Webster saves Liebgott's life. Liebgott doesn't save Webster's, but somehow they get a second chance anyway.A coda tojouissant'sThe Replacement. It won't make much sense if you haven't read that first, but I hope you like it!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Replacement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634493) by [jouissant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant). 



> Seriously, you need to read [The Replacement](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10634493) first, but I promise you it will be worth it.  
> [Here is a comic/informational poster about the scene from the fic that inspired this fic](http://trailsofpaper.tumblr.com/post/159636386348/event-horizon-by-trailsofpaper-the)

_“Oh, Liebgott almost drowned in the dive tank,” Dick said. “He got tangled in the air hose. Webster dragged him out of the pool and gave him mouth-to-mouth, and then Liebgott came to and didn’t know what was going on. Almost knocked Web’s lights out. He pushed him over and he clocked his head on the tile, so in the end I had to send both of them to the infirmary.”_

* * *

Liebgott didn’t remember being saved. He remembered struggling with the damn air hose, which had wound itself twice around his neck when he’d miscalculated his trajectory in trying to reach the signaling station. He remembered thinking he needed to get free quick, before the lack of oxygen made him lose consciousness.

Drowning has an exponential disaster curve, Liebgott remembered learning, and losing oxygen is a big part of why.

Next thing he knew he was blinking and coughing  and aching all over in the infirmary, with Malarkey telling him, with great relish, how he had decked Webster first thing when he woke up.

“Webster?” Liebgott croaked, rubbing his forehead with a knuckle as he squinted at Malarkey, who was sitting on a bed opposite, lotus position with his great big dirty boots on the bedspread.

“Yeah, man,” Malarkey said, leaning forward. “He pulled you out of there.”

“But he wasn’t even down there with me,” Liebgott protested, trying to think back and remembering only the swirl of bubbles in the suffocating blue of the neutral buoyancy pool.

“He was just suiting up to go down,” Malarkey informed him, and rubbed his nose with the flat of his palm. “He didn’t get the helmet in place, so he just held his breath, dove down and cut the air hose.”

“What - Webster?” Liebgott repeated, trying to wrap his head around the concept.  Webster - the dork who always tried to get out of everything, never volunteered to so much as get a guy a sandwich if he was walking by the mess - diving 30 feet without a helmet to help someone out?

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Malarkey insisted, grinning like a lunatic. “Then he gave you the good old kiss of life, and you smacked his head to the deck by way of thanks.”

“Jesus,” Liebgott groaned, and pressed the heels of his hands into the sockets of his eyes.

“Yeah,” Malarkey agreed easily. “They put you both in the decompression chamber just to be safe, and you went out like a light, but Webster was cleared already, and you should be cleared as soon as the nurse comes back and, I don’t know, takes your pulse or something.”

“Great,” Liebgott replied, before inhaling slowly, taking his time to feel out the filtered oxygen filling his lungs. “Remind me to never participate in fucking EVAs again. Just launch me directly into space.”

 

Something other than the near-death experience had been itching under the collar of Liebgott’s uniform all day. He was exempt from training for a couple of days, and Liebgott had nothing to do. He’d been reading vintage comics - Flash Gordon never went out of style - on his shitty little handheld, but loading new ones took forever on the ship net, and Liebgott soon grew frustrated

“Toccoa,” he said, and imagined he could feel the artificial intelligence of the ship turn her attention toward him, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. “Location of Private Webster?”

“One moment,” the ship computer replied, and Liebgott frowned. He couldn’t remember Toccoa ever asking for time to locate anyone before.

“Private Webster is in washing room 12 on deck 6,” Toccoa said then, and Liebgott shook his head a little.

“Okay,” he said, and for some reason felt compelled to tack on a, “Thank you.”

Liebgott had to pull up a map to find the washing room on deck 6, because he had never had any kind of business there. He didn’t know anyone who had had business in a washing room; their uniforms tended to turn up folded in their lockers without much personal intervention.

At long last, he found the door that slid open after he touched the pad beside it. He stepped into the washing room, wondering if Webster was even there anymore. The door closed behind him with a soft hiss, and Liebgott couldn’t see him, all he could see were rows upon rows of industrial washing machines. He thought he could hear the whirring of one in operation, but most of them were silent and dark.

But then Liebgott sensed something move behind him and whipped around.

Webster sat on a lone  washing machine, evidently  discarded, by the door. He had his legs crossed at the ankles, and in his hands were an honest to god book, the old kind with paper pages and a spine that seemed cracked with use.

Liebgott thought the movement he had heard was Webster straightening up from leaning against the wall. His eyes, blue even in the dim light of the washing room, were round in surprise, and his mouth hung open.

“Corporal,” he said then, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, and Liebgott resented it.

“You can call me Lieb,” Liebgott said, aiming for some kind of levity. “Since you saved my life.”

Webster looked down at that, his eyelashes sweeping against his cheekbones, and his fingers curling over the worn cover of the book. Liebgott took a step closer, putting his index finger under the book to lift it up to read the title.

“Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea,” Liebgott read, word for word. Webster didn’t say anything, so Liebgott looked up at him. “Really?”

“Seemed apt,” Webster said, meeting his eyes again. “Considering.”

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Liebgott said. Webster shrugged, and folded down the corner of the page he was on and closed the book.

“I like water,” Webster said, uncrossing his legs to put the book down beside him. “But I hate the thought of someone drowning. Especially in space. The irony is a little too much.”

“I wasn’t drowning, I almost choked to death,” Liebgott said, and felt a small measure of glee at the way Webster flinched.

“Yeah I know,” Webster said, recovering commendably. “I was the one who saved you from choking to death.”

Liebgott huffed a laugh. He saw Webster frown, his forehead creasing around the nasty bruise above his left eyebrow, which apparently was Liebgott’s fault. He put his thumb on Webster’s chin to tilt his head to the side, inspecting the bruise.

“Sorry about that,” Liebgott said, but there was still laughter in his voice, and when his eyes dropped from the bruise to Webster’s eyes, he saw a spark of defiance.

Liebgott still had the pad of his finger pressed into Webster’s chin, feeling the stubble grate against his thumbprint.

He couldn’t say who moved first - Webster splayed his legs open, Liebgott moved into the space, easy as breathing, and Webster curved his back and Liebgott grasped his chin by fitting his index finger in the groove beneath his lower lip.

He felt Webster’s mouth fall open under his, their noses brushed together, and they were kissing. It was a little uncomfortable, Liebgott craning his neck to drag his lips against Webster’s, catching on Webster’s teeth, but Webster tasted warm and inviting, and Liebgott was surprised by how nice it was, how easily their eyes had closed and how quickly they went to breathing fast.

He wasn’t used to nice.

They weren’t especially synched though - when Liebgott pushed his tongue into Webster’s mouth, he gasped and kicked the back of Liebgott’s leg with the heel of his boot; when Webster carded his fingers through Liebgott’s hair, Liebgott tried to get some purchase on the damn uniform, almost pulling Webster down from the washing machine.

In the end, Liebgott did yank Webster down from it, to pull down the zipper of his uniform. Being uncoordinated created a special kind of friction, and Liebgott could hear his pulse thud in his ears.

“Uh, it-” Webster said, into Liebgott’s mouth. He felt his lips move, the words forming breaths. “Is this a good idea?”

Liebgott moved to mouth along the line of Webster’s jaw, pressing a kiss over the jump of a pulse where it met his throat.

“Unless you have a private cabin tucked away,” Liebgott murmured, vaguely surprised by the rough note to his own voice as he finally managed to get the zipper all the way open, and pushed the overall down from Webster’s broad shoulders. “I mean, I assume you sneak in here to read your books uninterrupted.”

“Yeah,” Webster said, word breaking off on a hitched breath as Liebgott got his hand in his uniform trunks.

“So we’re good then,” Liebgott murmured into Webster’s ear, grazing his teeth against his earlobe.

“I meant that- “ Webster had to give a shaky exhale as Liebgott gave him a few experimental tugs, pleased by the warm smoothness of him, how eager he seemed. “I meant that, this isn’t your way of thanking me, is it.”

Liebgott gave a snort, leaning back a little to look Webster in the eye again. He was flushed, his hair in disarray, and he looked really ready to be fucked.

“I wish,” Liebgott said, biting his lower lip, relishing in the tingle of beard burn. “Nah, I just feel like having sex with you.”

“Okay then,” Webster said, and Liebgott decided he had been holding out until then, because Webster yanked his zipper open with an efficiency he had never seen in Webster during training, and pushed his undershirt out of the way and pulled his trunks halfway down his thighs, to get a hand on Liebgott as well.

Webster never once looked away from Liebgott’s eyes, even when he spat in the palm of his hand, and Liebgott would have been embarrassed by the zip of arousal down his spine if it didn't feel so good to get spit-slicked fingers around him, grip tight enough to be on the edge of painful.

Liebgott couldn’t imagine why Webster had joined the army. God knew Liebgott’s own reasons had become fuzzy enough over time. There were all sorts of jokes back on the stations, of how those army boys on their space ship had to get their rocks off somehow, and certainly, mutual handjobs in dingy washing room wasn’t the greatest sexual experience of Liebgott’s life.

But somehow, Webster wringing out his orgasm with clever fingers and murmured words, a mix of filthy and reassuring, in his ear, with the rustling of their uniforms and the whine of that one washing machine somewhere as background noise, was the most satisfying thing Liebgott could remember experiencing.

He gasped with it, knees giving out as he leaned heavily on Webster, who swayed back under the weight. Liebgott licked his own lips, and pushed his fingers through the mess on Webster’s stomach, some of it on his rucked up undershirt. Liebgott smeared a little of it into the warm skin of Webster’s stomach, but then used the rest to ease the slide of his hand as he resumed jerking Webster off.

Webster came with a choked off groan, eyes closing in an expression that looked almost pained. Liebgott felt a small pang of regret, wishing for Webster to be as loud as he wanted, somewhere actually private.

Liebgott had closed his hands around Webster, and when Webster’s eyes blinked open, Liebgott gave him a quick wink and wiped off his palms on his already soiled undershirt.

Webster gave a small noise of annoyance, tugging at Liebgott’s hair in warning. Liebgott grinned, tucking Webster back in to zip him up.

“We’re in a washing room, what do you complain about,” Liebgott said.

“Can’t walk the halls without the uniform,” Webster replied, but he sounded drowsy, at ease, and he leaned his chin on Liebgott’s shoulder.

“Next leave,” Liebgott found himself saying, “we’re gonna get a hotel room and do this right.”

Webster moved against him, doing the same, zipping Liebgott back up. There was suddenly an almost domestic element to it, and Liebgott’s head was spinning with the gentleness.

“Sure,” Webster murmured. “As long as I don’t have to save your life again.”

“Fuck you,” Liebgott said, but they were both grinning.

* * *

* * *

 

_“I got it in the gut,” Webster said. “Bled out slow enough I got to lay in my buddy’s lap and, I don’t know, recite poetry or something. Things I thought you ought to do when you were dying.”_

* * *

 

Liebgott had a tendency to be close to disaster. He was there when Tipper was hit, and he had cradled Tipper’s body as his face bled into Liebgott’s uniform. Tipper had made it though.

Webster hadn’t.

Liebgott had been there too, cradling Webster, getting blood on his uniform. Webster’s blue eyes had blinked up at him, stupid and slow, and he’d said:

“It hurts.”

“I know buddy,” Liebgott had said, patting his cheek with a blood-slippery hand. “It’s gonna be alright, doc’s gonna patch you up.”

“Don’t let those be my last words,” Webster had said, his hand pawing weakly at Liebgott’s arm. “Nothing... Nothing ever becomes real 'til it is experienced.”

“Yeah, no shit Web,” Liebgott had laughed, but Webster’s hand had gone slack like his mouth, and his blue eyes had stayed open, and Liebgott had wanted to punch the earth and scream.

Later, Liebgott had found out that it was a John Keats quote. Liebgott tried to read some of his poetry, but he found he hated the flowery language, the way nothing could ever be said right out, and he had closed the tabs angrily on his handheld before throwing it down on his bed.

Liebgott kept feeling angry all the time, and it made him even angrier, a perpetual hamster wheel of adrenaline and helplessness. They hadn’t even been friends, really, he shouldn’t be so upset about it just because they’d fucked on Callisto after one too many beers, and because Webster’s eyes had been so bright in the Jupiter light falling in through the window when Liebgott seated himself in the cradle of his hips.

People died in war all the time.

“Hey Liebgott,” Lipton called across the mess hall, and Liebgott could barely dredge up the decorum to salute the officer as he turned to him.

“Sink sent a runner,” Lipton said, his face even more puppy-like than usual as he gazed at Liebgott, something in the slant of his eyes. “He wants you to report to his office.”

Liebgott raised his eyebrows, but Lipton didn’t seem to know anything more because he crossed his arms and nodded at him to get going. Toye elbowed Liebgott in the ribs, and Liebgott heard the guys snigger and start to whisper among themselves.

Liebgott hoped he conveyed blasé rebelliousness by the slow swing of his leg across the bench and the way he dragged his feet, and not the gut-churning worry he actually felt. What had he done to warrant a trip to Colonel Sink’s office? It sure as hell wasn’t for a promotion, so what did that leave? A demotion? A one-way trip to the nearest station, discarded like a space suit with a hole in it.

Liebgott thought he had imagined all the worst scenarios, so the gut punch Sink delivered was completely out of left field. Liebgott just sat there with his hands loosely clasped in his lap, blinking like an idiot.

“I’m sorry sir, you want me to what?”

Sink didn’t sigh, but he blew out a breath that made his moustache flutter.

“It’s a new policy, to assign replacements with a guide, someone to help them reintegrate with their unit.”

He swiped at something on his desk screen, stiffly with one finger.

“Major Speirs tells me you were close with Private Webster, so we thought you would be an ideal candidate. Unless you have any objections?”

Liebgott opened his mouth, but his throat was so dry he had to close it and swallow before he could force out:

“I just didn’t know-”

He faltered when Sink looked up at him, and Liebgott closed his mouth again, pressing his lips together.

“No objections, sir. “

Liebgott had so many objections, and he went through all of them one by one as he waited with the rest of them for the replacements to dock - it wasn’t just Webster, it was Captain Winters too, and god knew Easy could use Dick Winters.

First of all, Liebgott and Webster hadn’t been _close_ , Liebgott had just teased him relentlessly enough that the guys had picked up on it. Second of all, Liebgott would be shit at helping anyone reintegrate anywhere, much less _Webster_ , who Liebgott had very little in common with. Third of all - Webster had died. This was a replacement, and for all they talked about _perfect neural reintegration_ , everyone knew it wasn’t the same person who came back.

Liebgott felt Malarkey put his hand on his shoulder when the docking light turned green, but he shrugged it off. He didn’t need anyone to reassure him. _He_ hadn’t died. Liebgott resisted the urge to tap his foot impatiently.

Liebgott hated how he instantly zeroed in on the right person when they stepped off the transport - It was Webster, complete with that slouching gait, like he wanted to apologize for existing but was failing miserably at it.

Sink stepped up to Winters with Nixon in tow, but everything turned into a vague background noise in Liebgott’s mind. He could only see Webster, the way he nervously cast his gaze around, and how his hair was too short - Webster used to fuss with his chocolate locks, resenting the buzz cut that was the preference of some of the men - he’d let Liebgott cut it once, and Liebgott had taken the piss out of him for it, but nevertheless made sure a lock would curl just so across his forehead.

Now it was short enough to stand up, thick as the hair was - Liebgott judged that it hadn’t been more than three months since it had been buzzed off entirely. He had the sudden notion to push his fingers through Webster’s hair, to mold his fingers along his skull. Liebgott had to ball up his fists to squelch  the urge, and kept them clenched as he followed Sink to Webster, fingernails biting into his palms.

Liebgott noticed the moment Webster locked eyes with him - it was an electric jolt down his spine, and no way in hell had Webster’s eyes been that blue before. They had to have done something.

There was something _in_ his eyes too - not exactly recognition, Liebgott thought, but something like calculation. Sizing Liebgott up. And Liebgott found himself straightening up, making himself as broad as possible. No robot was going to find him lacking, that was for damn sure.

“Private Webster,” Sink said, and his voice grated on Liebgott’s nerves. “This is -”

“Corporal Liebgott,” Webster said, and he sounded as airy as he did before, but there wasn’t that note of wonder that Liebgott had found incredibly irritating, yet now missed acutely.

“Quite.” Sink said. “You remember him.”

Webster’s gaze flickered at that, a sweep of long lashes in a quick blink.

“I read his file,” Webster said haltingly, and Liebgott thought there was something reassuringly human in the way he shifted his weight then.

“Good,” Sink said, and Liebgott could tell he had already written them both off. “The corporal will be responsible for your reintegration to the unit.”

* * *

 

_“I read my file,” he said quietly. “Over and over, all right? And then I kept reading. About the things he seemed to--to like. And finally I started to remember that, and then it started to feel just the same as if I knew it.”_

* * *

“You read my file, huh,” Liebgott said as soon as the door closed on the cabin Webster - and by extension, Liebgott - had been assigned. Apparently being a replacement came with certain perks, because no other private had their own cabin, that was for certain.

Liebgott had been informed of this fact while they were making the rounds, checking in with the second platoon. Malarkey had eyed Liebgott throughout the entire thing, but Liebgott could only shrug. It should have been Hoobler - Hoobler and Webster had been the actual good friends, but Hoobler had shot a hole in his own atmo suit not long after Webster had died. Dying from space exposure apparently meant you couldn’t be replaced, so here Liebgott was.

Webster seemed keenly interested in the goings on aboard _Toccoa_ , asking questions about everything and anything, but people didn’t seem inclined to indulge his small talk. Finally Liebgott had to drag him away from the looks they guys kept shooting him. Webster hadn’t seemed to mind, but it made something sour climb up Liebgott’s throat, and it was a relief to arrive at the cabin.

Webster blinked up at him, hunched over as he was, gently putting his duffel down on the floor.

“Yes.” he said. Straightening up slowly, Webster kept his eyes locked with Liebgott’s, but it was like he wasn’t actually seeing him. Those blue eyes were lost looking at something else entirely when he started to recite:

“Corporal Joseph D. Liebgott, non-commissioned officer of Easy Company. Eldest of six siblings, from The San Francisco Section of West Coast Station. Received a citation for gallantry at the Battle of Mare Smythii. Wounded in action, a ricochet to the side of the neck. ”

“Wow, it’s like you know me, Web,” Liebgott said. He leaned against the wall with what he hoped was an air of breeziness, but he couldn’t stop his hand from traveling up to his throat, thumbing at the still pink scar.

Webster just blinked again, like he was _analyzing_ something, and Liebgott didn’t like it.

“Web,” he said. “You call me Web?”

“Yeah,” Liebgott said, before the questioning tone of Webster’s voice registered. Liebgott straightened up, arms falling to his sides from where they’d been crossed. “Wait, you don’t actually know me? You don’t remember me?”

Webster clutched his own arm in a gesture that belied the rumours of replacements being robot-like husks, rubbing his thumb over the brand new material of his uniform..

“I.... kind of remember you,” Webster said. “Or I can’t... it feels like a dream. I remember you and water. In water.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead then, and Liebgott thought it was the exact spot he’d gotten the bruise from when Liebgott had smacked his head to the deck. It must have been wishful thinking though, because there was not a spot marring Webster’s skin now.

“You pulled me out of the water,” Liebgott said, and took a step closer. There was something vulnerable in the hunch of Webster’s shoulder that he viciously wanted to eradicate. “Saved my goddamn life, Web.”

“I did?” Webster said, looking at Liebgott, and maybe his eyes had been that shade of blue all along, but Liebgott would never know.

“Yeah,” Liebgott said, balling his fists again before he did something stupid, like grab Webster by the collar and kiss him. “Yeah, Web, and I couldn’t do the same for you, you fucking bastard.”

“I’m sorry,” Webster said, and Liebgott had to let out a bark of laughter completely devoid of humor.

“You’re sorry? Hell, Web, you bled out in my lap and I couldn’t do shit about it, how do you think I feel? Sorry doesn’t fucking cover it.”

Webster said nothing, but his lips parted over an exhale, and oh, he breathed. That was something. Liebgott leaned in even closer, before he even knew he was doing it.

“I’ve been thinking about you every fucking day since you bit the dust, and now it turns out you’re not dead, but you don’t remember me. This is some real kind of ironic bullshit.”

Somehow he and Webster had inched even closer to each other, but he had no idea who was to blame. The words spilled out of Liebgott like they’d been crowding his throat to get out, and he wanted to stop, but he couldn’t.

“Fuck, Web, I’ve killed so many men I’ve lost count, I’ve lost friends I cared about, but I never lost a wink of sleep over it, not before you. You and your goddamn poetry.”

“What kind of poetry?” Webster said, which stopped Liebgott dead in his tracks. For a second they only stared at each other, the moment stretching out in time in a way that had nothing to with relativity.

“Keats,” Liebgott said at last. “John Keats. He’s shit.”

Webster smiled, and Liebgott saw it in his eyes before he saw the corner of his mouth stretch upwards.

“I think I liked you,” Webster said. Liebgott finally grabbed his collar before saying, “Fuck you,” against his lips.

It was, in many ways, a better first kiss than the first time around, Liebgott mused. It was slower for one thing, just dry lips for a long moment. Both of them breathed through their noses, and Liebgott’s fingers curled in Webster’s collar to pull him closer.

Webster finally parted his lips, and the hot gust of breath - that visceral proof of life - made Liebgott groan and press into him.

“Goddamn, Web,” Liebgott murmured against his cheek as he felt Webster’s hands hesitantly slide up his back. “I didn’t mean to– to spring this on you.”

“Did I... Did I use to call you anything?” Webster asked, and there was something aching in the way he said it, soft and apologetic. Liebgott nuzzled in between Webster’s collar and warm skin, careful to keep his hands on Webster’s waist and not dipping lower.

“Yeah,” he he started to reply, but broke off on a hitched breath when Webster ignored the unspoken rule and slid his own hands lower, grabbing Liebgott’s ass like it was the most natural thing in the world to press their bodies together.

“Jesus Christ,” Liebgott said instead, one hand coming up to cradle Webster’s jaw as he breathed against the joint of neck and shoulder. “Fuck, are you sure?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Webster replied. “I just– like you, and you’re the first thing I’ve liked by myself, without reading about it.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Liebgott said, but he laughed while he said it, and his fingers were steady as anything when they unzipped Webster’s uniform.

Webster watched his hands, seemed to catalogue their movements as Liebgott pushed the uniform down his shoulders, dragging it off his arms so the jumpsuit pooled around his boots. Liebgott looked up at him, and then pushed at his sternum. It was solid, but warm.

“Sit,” Liebgott said, and Webster blinked but obeyed, folding his legs easily as he sat down on the neatly made bed.

Liebgott swallowed as he kneeled, lifting up Webster's feet to pull off first the one boot, then the other, his socks coming off at the same time. He didn’t look at Webster as he peeled the jumpsuit off all the way, briefly squeezing his ankle.

Webster canted his legs open without prompting, and Liebgott ran his hands along his thighs, the hair coarse under his palms.

“You can tell me to stop,” Liebgott said, because he wanted it on record, wanted Webster to actually want this instead of just going along with it

He leaned in to mouth at Webster’s boxers, and felt him swell against his lips.

“I like your hair,” Webster said, reaching to card his fingers through it, and Liebgott thought he heard a note of wonder in his voice. He chanced a look up through his lashes, and Webster’s mouth was open, his eyes fixed on Liebgott.

“You can pull if you want,” Liebgott said, grinning. He groaned when Webster did just that, closing his fist around a handful of Liebgott’s hair and tugging. He didn’t pull hard, but there was a promise of strength in the coil of his arm that sent a spike of arousal down Liebgott’s spine.

“Do you like that?” Webster asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Buddy, I like a whole lot of things,” Liebgott said, pulling himself onto the bed and over Webster. “The question is, what do you like? Because I’m the same old me, but you’re a whole new you.”

Webster fell down easily under Liebgott, spreading himself out across the bed.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, eyes flickering over Liebgott as he hovered above him. “I think I would like you naked.”

Liebgott grinned again, this time wide enough that his cheeks hurt.

“We’ll just have to find out,” he said and made haste to get rid of his clothes.

It turned out Webster did like Liebgott naked; he liked it when Liebgott kissed his throat over the pulse point that wasn’t anymore; he liked it when Liebgott kissed his collarbone, chestbone, each and every rib on the left, and his hipbone. He liked it when Liebgott hefted Webster’s leg up to better be able to reach because he liked the feeling of lube and being stretched open. Webster liked to be folded in half with Liebgott’s face buried against his shoulder, and he liked to be fucked faster until he came with a gasp.

Liebgott almost sobbed with the intensity of his own climax, his entire body locking up for a second before the tension bled out of him and left him boneless and sprawled out on top of Webster.

The white noise of Liebgott’s conflicting thoughts ebbed out, and the only thing left was the sound of their breathing as it slowed down in tandem. Liebgott felt Webster’s chest rise and fall beneath him, making Liebgott rise and fall as well. He felt like he could stay there forever.

He wasn’t made for staying still though, and soon they grew cold and sticky from drying sweat. Liebgott crawled higher up and half rolled off Webster so he could keep nuzzling into his neck, and he slung his leg across Webster’s stomach that bore no evidence of cause of death.

Webster gave a content hum, and his arm tightened around Liebgott’s waist. Liebgott would not admit to how much he liked it.

“You did call me something once,” Liebgott whispered into the warm skin behind Webster’s ear.

Webster turned his face towards Liebgott, and their noses bumped together.

“Just Lieb,” Liebgott said. He blinked, and felt his eyelashes catch against Webster’s cheek.

“Lieb,” Webster said, and his eyes were blue and faraway. “That’s German for love.”

“Yeah,” Liebgott said. “But it’s not like that. It’s just a shortening. Like Web.”

Liebgott was dislodged when Webster turned on his side and pushed himself up on his elbow. He slid hlis free hand up, to cup Liebgott’s cheek, and whispered:

“I like you, Lieb.”


End file.
